S M A L L W E E D 33



Carried around LONDON TOWN
Upon a litter, portered by lackeys
Like some kind of cut-throat pasha,
His dirty golden locks
Dribbling out from under
A stained and patterned cap.

Trumpeting his entrance
Into any establishment
With the decorum of a swan-in-heat :
“THERE’S MONEY ‘ERE !”

He duly orders his bearer
To “SHAKE ME UP”
Upon which command
Some man or boy or girl
Grabs him stoutly about his chest and
With arms encircled and locked
Does, indeed, SHAKE
The old bag of bones
Up and out--

To do his nasty work
In dark Victorian corners.











HELICOPTER FROG 34



“NEWS OF THE WORLD”
Flashes on the silver screen--

Like a floating toad

Its underbelly descending slowly

At an upturned angle

This bespeckled green

Camoflaged machine

Comes in for a soft landing

Among reed grasses

And bamboo shoots,

Opens its disgorging mouth

To take on fleeing human-cargo

In between

Machine-gun bullet-blasts

And exploding mortar shells.


The newsreel ended,
The audience leaves.










C O N F R O N T A T I O N 35



A stiff and virginal-looking matron
In startched brocaded jacket, tailored severely

Advances unafraid towards the bar
Inhaling her courage in rapid breaths.


Girding herself,
She exhales into the den

To find--
Men, rough and unrepentant,
Drinking, swearing, laughing loudly.


She approaches one
Directly, decisively, desperately.


“Are you William Finch?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I do, you bastard.”



And with that--

The play began.









S C I S S O R S 36


for slick-slicing
and quick-cutting

these twin-triangulated blades
riveted at their fluid-fulcrum
connected to flexible finger-grips

direct straightly-lined incisions
across
paper
and
fleshy parts

needing separating into sections
with precision and pre-vision
where a single slicer won’t do--at all.


so, someone’s solution set
TWO BLADES singularly side-by-side
and by sliding past each other
this now double-edged instrument

--in a surgeon’s hand--

enfolds and inflicts the “unkindest cut of all” :

discriminatingly
segregating

one part from another, et al.

SLICE CAREFULLY !









H O T - E N - T O T 37


hot, hot, hot--

tot, tot, tot--

hop, hop, hop--

up, down, around--

shallow, deep, abound.


SO--hot, hot, hot--en

tot, tot, tot.



SO WHAT?









N O T R E D A M E 38



High gray gothic spires soar
Up and out
Flying buttressed to
Spiraling, reaching towers
Dripping with ornamental
Encrustations of
Griffins and gargoyles
That gaze and pout
Demon-like
Above the milling crowds
That swarm and gather
In the square below
With visions of
Legends still
Ringing in their heads--

As Quasimodo swings
On thun’drous echoing sounds
To rescue Esmeralda.


G I A N T--
For his love
Of bells.







W H I T E F I R E 39



I awaken with--


Gliding wind of billowing white sheets

Gauzed free

Undulating, flapping up and over

At once covered by AND creating

The design of a puffing tent--


Rope wraps itself within its ivory folds

And snapping flashes of mind-arcing sparks

IGNITE IN FLAMES--


As I dream

Alive, in bed.







D I C K T R A C Y 40



Palm-sized silvered slivers

Flip-top folding-hinged

Razored-thin black plastic--


ACTUAL PORTABLE TELEPHONES--


Sans wires or pod-like bases

Protrude and proliferate

Our newly wireless landscape

And fill our audio channels

With Beethoven rings

And lavaliere mics

For hands-free talking-sqwaking.



Who would have thought it--

A reality?







G I R L S A N D B U O Y S 41


Bobbing multi-colored corks

In the YMCA swimming pool

Octogenarians adrift in

RED YELLOW
BLUE
GREEN

Splash, paddle and stretch

With floats and caterpilar tubes.



The smells of stale chlorine

Rise from off calcified white tiles and

Waft among rusted lockers--

As I run and seek for air.







D E A T H 42A



A little, fat old man hurries
Across a lawn of green,
Trembling, nervous.

I meet him and his eyes
Quickly tell me what he has to say:

“My wife--she died last night--
Suddenly, she just fell.
I called the fire station, but...”

And that awful sickness
Dirty, black
Rises in my throat
And I am powerless.

I say some words and,
Stunned, hurry on.

It was a glorious day--
Sun, green, warmth, sweetness;
But now, all has changed
And earth takes on the sickly smell.

All day long I hesitate
As my actions seem to mock me.

A siren shrieks on a street nearby
And I wish to flee--
Away into trees and rock
And silence.

42B



A little, fat, old lonely man
Has lost half his life--or more.

And, for a moment, so have I.







S P R I N G S 43



“Sorrow’s springs are the same,”

The priestly poet wrote, knowingly.

“Y E S, Margaret

All those springs are ONE--

LOSS
after

another.”

As the seas roll on,
curl white and
crash back
to smack the flat black sands

And pebbles ring in the currents of the
Holy Stream--

He continues to pray for Lordly mercy.


As Margaret, by and by,

Unleaves her golden grove

And learns that

It is--Margaret--that she grieves for.







PIED-PIPER 44

A tall man
An elderly man
bent over with
Grizzled beard greying-out on black skin

Whimsically whistles his happy way
Up-and-Down
In-and-Around
Streets lined with schools and playful parks--

And his long
wed-in-wood
filled-with-air

FLUTE lures with magic (or so it seems)
those mesmerized
Lemming-dwarfs
all-in-a-row
lined-up-to follow

This lightsome merry musician
To-and-Fro their summertime classes
And-back-again to their harboring homes

ALL for a chance of
a promised smile

Played upon a F L U T E .


ALL watched by one
who would also pipe his words
upon young playful minds.







L ‘ I N F E R N O 45


A horn-rimmed bespeckled stationery salesman
High-browed, Valentino-jacketed

Entered the salon;
Exited Armani-armed
To prowl Italian ways.


Seated at a cafe
In LA PIAZZA MAGGIORE

He sipped his frothy cappucino,
A soupcon of cream upon his upper lip.


Bella ragazzae ambled on,

Swarthy Lotharios peacocked by,

Camera-clad tourists wandered lost.


Not enough
To quench his penciled thirst,

He opened his book
And turned to--

CANTO XXXIV--

Briefly,

And ordered again.







T O M M Y ‘ S S N O W 46



White-washed dust of snows

Up on brown-blackened branches

Fell from heaven last night

Enwrapping, clinging to

Enchanted forest sights.


What wonders of delight

Shall we two encounter

In day’s light?


And we go forth, together,

Expectantly.






D U S K 47



Gray-golden shafts of sun shift tight

As my light clicks down from day to night.


Looming rays refract reflectively

From green fields

A few minute moments ago, no bigger

Than a gnat’s eye sparkling up

From within its flower’s blinding cup.


My eyelids close

No longer lit by day’s flaming fire

Now subdued in evening shade.


Twilight streaks across the orange-azure sky

And night grows large to swallow all

In blue-black shrouds of dusty pall--


Before I sleep and fall--
One last time: candle out.







C R U D D Y C R U S T S 48


Miasmal mists of daily dross

Settle down

Up on my middling mind;

Dark-curtained shrouds

Halt my daily motions.

They grow round my sparking synapses

And petrify into encrusted barnacles

Attaching in enervating layers of ennui

That STOP the ebb and flow

Of excited currents

To dead, stand-stills--

Caught and stuck in my flight.



B E W A R E

The weights upon my mind--

Can kill

With most subtle skill.







END OF PART III